Tuesdays with Adaline, The Denture Edition

I let myself in her screen door one Tuesday around 7:00, and when I was sitting down at the kitchen table, her bright white smile made me hesitate for a second. I didn't say anything. When she was talking, she sounded different. I noticed her teeth were straighter and much larger than normal. Maybe I made a face, maybe I was staring and her mouth while she spoke, but for whatever reason she decided to share, "Pete don't like when I wear these dentures. He says, 'Mom, you don't look like yourself.'" I laughed but didn't want to tell her I agreed with Pete.

It made me remember a time when I was 15 years old and it was summertime and Poppy was driving me in his truck and dropping me off at St. Anne's Home on weekday afternoons. I remembered Velma, the tiny 94-year-old woman who I would push in her geri chair to the physical therapy room, and how she would grab my arm and smile and tell me how much she loved me and how beautiful I was. And I would respond by telling her how beautiful she was, because her smile was just so joyful, contagious and beautiful. And then I remember the one day all summer when her son decided to visit, the obligatory semi-annual check-in, or whatever it was. I was invisible walking by her geri chair in the hallway, because she was looking up lovingly at her son, smiling a gigantic toothy smile that made me confused. Later I wondered if Velma's son wanted to see his mother smiling with teeth that resembled her teeth from long ago, or whether he preferred her natural toothless joyful smile.

I liked the first smile I saw on Velma's face. And I liked Adaline's first set of dentures. And even though I am more ashamed of my teeth than most other physical parts of me, I was thinking today about how when I get dentures (not too long from now) I'll probably ask them to replicate the same shape teeth as I have now.